April comes like an idiot... (1/2)

Well I wish I could tell you that I am like super awesome and jazzed about everything and happy happy happy. The best I can say of today is that the sky chair is up and the weather is warmer and my windows are open and the birds are chirping. But that's outside. Inside there is the rutted track of crappy, harsh self-messages that my brain runs over again and again and again. At least I can say that it is my brain and I'm not really crazy (I hope). But it frightens me how easily I get stuck in the rut. I am the skeptic and the general cranky pants who sits in the corner wondering where it all went wrong.

SPRING

by: Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)

O what purpose, April, do you return again?

Beauty is not enough.

You can no longer quiet me with the redness

Of little leaves opening stickily.

I know what I know.

The sun is hot on my neck as I observe

The spikes of the crocus.

The smell of the earth is good.

It is apparent that there is no death.

But what does that signify?

Not only under ground are the brains of men

Eaten by maggots.

Life in itself

Is nothing,

An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.

It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,

April

Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

Snow in April. Which you can barely see, but it's there... lurking.